Mammoth Update Post
She said: “In the days when you were
Hopelessly poor
I just liked you more
I think Reagan National is my favorite airport, despite the extensive security proceedings, because the arrival gates exit right in front of a political memorabilia shop. If you somehow managed to miss the forrest of national monuments sprouting just beyond the runway (which I never do), this fashionable window-front parade of donkeys and elephants serves to underscore the fact that you have now, truly, arrived in the Nation’s Capitol. Of course, I’m always already amply aware of the change of zip code, having spent most of the journey stewing in the nostalgic indecision produced by attempting to execute a transfer of sentimental loyalties from one city to another.
Before I left Montreal I spent a few days wrapped up in combating the doctrine of nostalgic pre-emption,* attempting to take endless photos of the bilingual graffiti and sun-spotted streets I already felt a confused longing for. Two nights in a row I stayed up to watch the sun rise, sitting wrapped in a grungy patchwork quilt on the cold front stoop. I kept readying my camera for the one moment when the daylight burst over the tops of the silent rowhouses, and kept managing to miss it, looking up from my book just an instant too late. I climbed to the roof and left Lucie The Houseplant there, where she’ll either thrive brilliantly in the summer sunshine, or else be forced to a painful demise by an excess of both heat and wind. I probably should have tried to take a picture of her as well- every instant when the sun was out seemed so entirely worthy of complete and endless preservation. We walked down to free ice cream day at Ben and Jerry’s, sitting crow-like along the curb with cones in hand, listening to the DJ play nameless clubbing songs while Hare Krishnas stood across the street watching mutely. When I stood up I would discover my skirt had been soaking up revolting gutter water, but I didn’t know that yet, and for the moment the glint of Crescent street, with Anaar on one side of me and Madelynn on the other, seemed to add a deliciously glossy, idyllic photo-finish to the school year.
That afternoon I set out on an ill-fated Odyssey to move several boxes of possessions from my apartment, soon to be occupied by my Sunny Summer Subletter (!!), to Carolyn’s empty one. The resulting adventure involved 80 dollars in tax fares, as well as the joint acquisition of 16 inexplicable bruises and one small sliver of glass embedded neatly in one foot. It also involves so much incompetence on my part that I’ll decline to tell it, hoping instead to retain the last vestiges of my tattered dignity. Though my father helpfully suggested I burn my stuff, both as a rejection of materialism and for efficiency’s sake, I declined.
Before I left I listened to a lot of late Beatles, read a lot of Irvine Welsh, and began to fantasize about drug use. (Failed, however, to actually make use of any drugs.) I spent a day intensely focused on hating my eye color, then went back to being indifferent again. I bought a giant pink rabbit and a box of Disney Princess Bandaids, which I somehow justified as being a mature purchase. I practiced drinking Kahlua and Milk from a bowl, feline style. I spent so much time in Starbucks they recognized me and knew my order. I sold books to several bookstores, and at each one spent more money than I earned. I scrubbed down my apartment and I somehow passed my last exams.
Then I went home.
My first two days in America I did almost entirely nothing- mostly I read, and slept, only occasionally mustering the energy to even drift aimlessly from one room to another, book and blanket in hand. Its overwhelming to be thrust so rapidly from my silent cave of an apartment into the bustling intensity of the Egan Home- so many things I’m accustomed to accomplishing independently are now communal affairs- eating, reading, transportation. Moreover, the physical structuring of our home takes some getting used to- the quirky uniqueness of the non-functioning doorknobs, the fridge door that needs a kick to stay closed, the bathtub drain inexplicably sheathed in duct tape. I conquered dual techno and phone phobias in order to set up functioning dsl for the house- which functioned for all of two days before being altered by my father in the interests of creating a house wifi network. Leaving, for the moment, a family of 4 teenagers dependent again upon one shared phone/ internet line. (Presumably we will also wash our clothing in the local stream, using rocks.) I’m buying a cell phone.
Anyways also I’ve gotten to spend some time hanging out with people, most notably attending the The Smiths Vs. The Cure Cryfest at The Black Cat. I <3 The Black Cat so much I immediately emailed my school friends descriptions of the evening- in the probably vain hope that hearing about a nightlife so different from Montreal’s Molestation & Molson Dry might decide them in favor of coming to visit me this summer. (I hope!) But there were giant cardboard cutouts from both bands, and people dressed impossibly weirdly (girls wearing 80s prom dresses and tiaras, a boy wearing horrific eye makeup and shiny leather pants), and they played what for awhile this year was my Favorite Song Ever, The Smiths “Half a Person”. And it was cool enough to probably cancel out the tiresomeness of missing the last metro train and having to cab it.
And now I’m back at the same job as last summer, mostly due to feeling too apathetic to bother with job hunting at all. Still, I know it is a Good Job, and I do like it most of the time- it’s sort of comforting to have my own little workplace world so neatly laid out and plus there are two Starbucks within a 2 minute walk and really I feel that fact alone makes my job nearly ideal, except for the perpetual exhaustion which accompanies it- which, let’s be fair, is entirely my fault, and is probably going to be an inevitable part of my life, regardless of what job I take, until I learn to be mature and grown up and not me.
Good, now that I feel unburdened of the events of the past several weeks, I hope I’ll be able to blog with great regularity- if nothing else at least in order to amuse myself at work.
That’s the story of my life
The story of my life
*= Dyanne Note: I feel this concept- feeling homesick for a place before you’ve left it, has some literary root. Where have I gotten it from, miss memory?
P.S. I’ve officially changed my IM to Smiletara2, because my dad cancelled Aol and I can’t access Smiletara. Add me to your list and love me.
Hopelessly poor
I just liked you more
I think Reagan National is my favorite airport, despite the extensive security proceedings, because the arrival gates exit right in front of a political memorabilia shop. If you somehow managed to miss the forrest of national monuments sprouting just beyond the runway (which I never do), this fashionable window-front parade of donkeys and elephants serves to underscore the fact that you have now, truly, arrived in the Nation’s Capitol. Of course, I’m always already amply aware of the change of zip code, having spent most of the journey stewing in the nostalgic indecision produced by attempting to execute a transfer of sentimental loyalties from one city to another.
Before I left Montreal I spent a few days wrapped up in combating the doctrine of nostalgic pre-emption,* attempting to take endless photos of the bilingual graffiti and sun-spotted streets I already felt a confused longing for. Two nights in a row I stayed up to watch the sun rise, sitting wrapped in a grungy patchwork quilt on the cold front stoop. I kept readying my camera for the one moment when the daylight burst over the tops of the silent rowhouses, and kept managing to miss it, looking up from my book just an instant too late. I climbed to the roof and left Lucie The Houseplant there, where she’ll either thrive brilliantly in the summer sunshine, or else be forced to a painful demise by an excess of both heat and wind. I probably should have tried to take a picture of her as well- every instant when the sun was out seemed so entirely worthy of complete and endless preservation. We walked down to free ice cream day at Ben and Jerry’s, sitting crow-like along the curb with cones in hand, listening to the DJ play nameless clubbing songs while Hare Krishnas stood across the street watching mutely. When I stood up I would discover my skirt had been soaking up revolting gutter water, but I didn’t know that yet, and for the moment the glint of Crescent street, with Anaar on one side of me and Madelynn on the other, seemed to add a deliciously glossy, idyllic photo-finish to the school year.
That afternoon I set out on an ill-fated Odyssey to move several boxes of possessions from my apartment, soon to be occupied by my Sunny Summer Subletter (!!), to Carolyn’s empty one. The resulting adventure involved 80 dollars in tax fares, as well as the joint acquisition of 16 inexplicable bruises and one small sliver of glass embedded neatly in one foot. It also involves so much incompetence on my part that I’ll decline to tell it, hoping instead to retain the last vestiges of my tattered dignity. Though my father helpfully suggested I burn my stuff, both as a rejection of materialism and for efficiency’s sake, I declined.
Before I left I listened to a lot of late Beatles, read a lot of Irvine Welsh, and began to fantasize about drug use. (Failed, however, to actually make use of any drugs.) I spent a day intensely focused on hating my eye color, then went back to being indifferent again. I bought a giant pink rabbit and a box of Disney Princess Bandaids, which I somehow justified as being a mature purchase. I practiced drinking Kahlua and Milk from a bowl, feline style. I spent so much time in Starbucks they recognized me and knew my order. I sold books to several bookstores, and at each one spent more money than I earned. I scrubbed down my apartment and I somehow passed my last exams.
Then I went home.
My first two days in America I did almost entirely nothing- mostly I read, and slept, only occasionally mustering the energy to even drift aimlessly from one room to another, book and blanket in hand. Its overwhelming to be thrust so rapidly from my silent cave of an apartment into the bustling intensity of the Egan Home- so many things I’m accustomed to accomplishing independently are now communal affairs- eating, reading, transportation. Moreover, the physical structuring of our home takes some getting used to- the quirky uniqueness of the non-functioning doorknobs, the fridge door that needs a kick to stay closed, the bathtub drain inexplicably sheathed in duct tape. I conquered dual techno and phone phobias in order to set up functioning dsl for the house- which functioned for all of two days before being altered by my father in the interests of creating a house wifi network. Leaving, for the moment, a family of 4 teenagers dependent again upon one shared phone/ internet line. (Presumably we will also wash our clothing in the local stream, using rocks.) I’m buying a cell phone.
Anyways also I’ve gotten to spend some time hanging out with people, most notably attending the The Smiths Vs. The Cure Cryfest at The Black Cat. I <3 The Black Cat so much I immediately emailed my school friends descriptions of the evening- in the probably vain hope that hearing about a nightlife so different from Montreal’s Molestation & Molson Dry might decide them in favor of coming to visit me this summer. (I hope!) But there were giant cardboard cutouts from both bands, and people dressed impossibly weirdly (girls wearing 80s prom dresses and tiaras, a boy wearing horrific eye makeup and shiny leather pants), and they played what for awhile this year was my Favorite Song Ever, The Smiths “Half a Person”. And it was cool enough to probably cancel out the tiresomeness of missing the last metro train and having to cab it.
And now I’m back at the same job as last summer, mostly due to feeling too apathetic to bother with job hunting at all. Still, I know it is a Good Job, and I do like it most of the time- it’s sort of comforting to have my own little workplace world so neatly laid out and plus there are two Starbucks within a 2 minute walk and really I feel that fact alone makes my job nearly ideal, except for the perpetual exhaustion which accompanies it- which, let’s be fair, is entirely my fault, and is probably going to be an inevitable part of my life, regardless of what job I take, until I learn to be mature and grown up and not me.
Good, now that I feel unburdened of the events of the past several weeks, I hope I’ll be able to blog with great regularity- if nothing else at least in order to amuse myself at work.
That’s the story of my life
The story of my life
*= Dyanne Note: I feel this concept- feeling homesick for a place before you’ve left it, has some literary root. Where have I gotten it from, miss memory?
P.S. I’ve officially changed my IM to Smiletara2, because my dad cancelled Aol and I can’t access Smiletara. Add me to your list and love me.